


A Fortuitous Dream

by lilyplujambah



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Disappointment, F/M, Frustration, Lottery, Love, mutual comfort
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-04
Updated: 2020-06-04
Packaged: 2021-03-04 04:33:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,278
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24537781
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lilyplujambah/pseuds/lilyplujambah
Summary: In true Fitz fashion, he doesn’t make it two meters into the kitchen before his graceless gait finds a discarded banana peel that lies unceremoniously on the tiled floor. Jemma cringes at the dramatic clash of newly-cleaned kitchenware cascading to the ground like a percussionist dropping their cymbals.
Relationships: Leo Fitz & Jemma Simmons, Leo Fitz/Jemma Simmons
Kudos: 7





	A Fortuitous Dream

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: I do not own anything in association with Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D..

“Jemma! Jemma! Look!” A dishevelled Fitz clambers into the kitchen waving a lone slip of paper wildly in the air. The smile on his face is broad, Jemma notices; even his teeth shine brightly in the yellow light of the room. A flush sits heavily on his cheeks and his natural lilt is accentuated by his evident enthusiasm.  
  
In true Fitz fashion, he doesn’t make it two meters into the kitchen before his graceless gait finds a discarded banana peel that lies unceremoniously on the tiled floor. Jemma cringes at the dramatic clash of newly-cleaned kitchenware cascading to the ground like a percussionist dropping their cymbals. He grasps at anything and everything in his misguided, and ultimately unsuccessful, attempt to remain upright.  
  
“Oh, Fitz!” Jemma exclaims, an almost unfair combination of exceptional amusement and caring concern overwhelming her expression. Her breath hitches as a snort escapes her throat and not moments later, she’s bent over herself in hysterics.  
  
Fitz collects himself, cursing at the fallen pots and pans. His smile is hardly tainted despite the severity of his uncoordinated collapse. A saucepan had forged a large, curved impression on the underside of his knee. Hobbling to a stance, Fitz waves Jemma over. She can see that he’s leaning against the counter for support, but does not comment - his news must be incredible. “What’s up?”  
  
Her prompt results in his fumbling to raise his paper once again. “I-” He turns to face her when she slips the paper out of his unsteady hands. “We won, Jems!”  
  
She analyses the slip. “You invested savings into the lotto?” Jemma asks, her expressions tightly wound. “You- When?” She isn’t certain how to feel. The thrill of a lingering giddiness lies dies within her, but her reasonability remains uncertain. “How long?” she questions. He glances at her, eyebrows raised and head tilted. “How long have you been doing this?” She waves the ticket in the air. A flush of imminent anger rises to her cheeks.  
  
Fitz’s smile dissipates immediately. “Don’t say that you’re mad at me.” She glimpses at the vulnerability in his eyes. The corners of his lips are still slightly up-turned, though his expression radiates worry.  
  
Jemma presses on. “You’ve spent how much? And, to make how little? One thousand pounds?” She looks down and takes a slow breath. “I thought we discussed the chances regarding the lotto years ago; we were still at the academy and-”  
  
“You suggested it was a good idea!” Fitz interrupts, albeit not too unkindly. Jemma silences and her eyes widen unwillingly. “You said that if you were ever gonna settle down, it wouldn’t be the worst idea to invest money.”  
  
“To invest money can mean many things! Of all of them, I wasn’t referring to the lottery.”  
  
Fitz silences and hoists himself unstably onto the kitchen counter. “It’s one million pounds,” he mumbles. Jemma isn’t certain exactly what he’s claiming. He invested one million pounds or he won one million pounds. She can’t bring herself to ask for fear that the truth may lie with the former. Jemma is aware that the odds of winning that big are minimal. Less than the chance of being injured as a witness to the demise of a primitive aircraft. Nae, who is she to judge Fitz’s common sense after the years of hell they’ve endured; with and without one another. While the odds of becoming trapped at the bottom of the ocean sure are slim, fate didn’t leave them with high expectations on life’s part.  
  
Jemma steps up to Fitz. “Can I see your leg?”  
  
“Huh?” Fitz’s eyes widen as he looks from his lap to her face. “My leg?”  
  
She doesn’t acknowledge his question, only raises his right leg above her shoulder. “There’s a darkening bruise,” she complains under her breath. She lowers his leg gently, the thought of injuring him further sitting unevenly in her stomach. “Turn over,” she instructs, beginning to do just that when he decides to comply.  
  
He sighs and twists himself around. “Why the kitchen counter?” he inquires once he is finally lying squarely on his stomach. His left arm drops off the curved edge of the counter; he is apparently unwilling to make himself space.  
  
“Why not?” Jemma counters, not prepared to forgive him. “Why’d you invest money into the lottery?”  
  
“I’m sorry, Jemma. If I’d known you’d be this angry, I wouldn’t’ve done it.” His legs raise in his subconscious attempt to portray body language. She presses them down firmly.  
  
“Don’t move,” she directs as she begins to examine his wound. “I don’t believe anything is broken, nor do your tendons appear to be stretched. I think you might be lucky,” she mumbles with an almost pitiless tone. She turns around abruptly and paces out of the kitchen. Were she in any other mood, she might clean up Fitz’s disaster but her rational mind is no match for the strength of the fury pooling in her muscles.  
  
She begins her workout with a slow jog. After five minutes of a moderate acceleration, she begins some peaceful music. Despite the increase in her heart rate and her flexing muscles, she feels herself calm. The tension within her lessens as she both ignores and accepts the prospect of losing thousands to some nonsensical investment. It is not something that she has pondered before. The idea of participating in the lottery was only ever a flicker of childish optimism from her younger, less experienced years. To a degree, she feels touched that Fitz still holds those naive, juvenile expectations. It is certainly not something that holds true for herself. After the trauma - emotional turmoil - she and Fitz had experienced - and survived through, it’s a wonder Fitz hasn’t lost all sight in life.  
  
Although Jemma had been, not only incredibly relieved but also, excited for the change in pace, she had concluded her field experience with depression and post-traumatic stress disorder. And, who could blame her? Everyone had always assumed that her reuniting with Fitz solved - resolved - everything. That, magically, she is better now that she lives in her dream world. A cosy cottage on the exquisite, mountainous outskirts of Perthshire does nothing to replenish and replace the years she’s missed. The stress that developed - crescendoed - within her until she broke. It was unreasonable to believe it would. Her expectations had shrunk to so little that she remains unable to remove the surprise that accompanies any happiness she feels.  
  
Despite this, her expectations regarding Fitz have only risen. She is aware that such demand is unfair to place on him. To believe he could - he would - change in the same way and in the same capacity as she had, is absurd. Their experiences had differed greatly. Where she had simply missed a best friend, he had been through hibernation, jail, cerebral hypoxia, the list goes on. He’d fought where she’d given up. He was stronger - he is stronger. He must, Jemma decides, have a capability to compartmentalise in a way she never has. For the organised one of the pair, she is certainly less mentally disciplined.  
  
Given the past hour hadn’t occurred, Jemma would’ve have thought that Fitz had, for all intents and purposes, gotten away scot-free. She hadn’t noticed, nor observed, his lapse in rational judgement before then. To invest in the lottery? That was the very definition of illogic. She isn’t aware of the amount of money that they have won, only that they have won an amount. Were she not burdened by the brunt of nearly a decade of outright torture, she might be more forgiving. But, unfortunately for Fitz, that isn’t the case.  
  
Stepping off the treadmill, a sufficient twenty minutes to calm her down, she walks directly to the shower. As she passes the lounge room, she glances as Fitz who lies lengthways on the couch, game controller in hand. She sighs and surprises herself by turning towards him. She strides up to him and perches herself on the front of the couch, in front of him. He is twisted sideways and when he tries to speak, she ignores him and lies beside him snuggling herself into his body. He does not object, despite her sweat-drenched body; only pulls her into him, spoons her, and kisses the side of her neck, his leg swinging around her body. She closes her eyes and settles peacefully in his arms.  
  
***  
  
Jemma wakes to an intense strain in her back and an uncomfortable pull in her neck. She stretches, albeit sorely, though it does aid her body, somewhat, in restoring her usual, painless equilibrium. She sits up with excessive speed and her stomach contents, or lack thereof considering a skipped evening meal the previous night, rise. She groans loudly as she swings her legs off the bed- ‘The bed?’ she questions herself. The last place she’d consciously been was on the couch. How she’d made it- She twists her body around to see her husband’s relaxed body sprawled across his side of the mattress. The only plausible explanation would be that he’d carried her.  
  
She slips out of bed, the ache lingering in her tense muscles, and turns on the shower. Where the water instantly relieves her discomfort, the chill of the tiles beneath her feet provide a jarring contrast and a burning sensation. Steam clouds the walls quickly as Jemma stands, unmoving in the steady spray of pressurised water. There is a loud sigh before the shower door opens and she feels two hands firmly pushed against her back towards her shoulders.  
  
“Fitz!”, she exclaims. She can’t explain the excitement that jolts her into sudden, overwhelming happiness.  
  
When she attempts to face him, he pushes on her shoulder stopping her. “Don’t,” he instructs and begins to ease her strain with his strong, slender fingers. Although she is almost certain that she is making it much more difficult for him to continue his ministrations, she leans back against him anyway. His body is warm, radiating heat like an incandescent light bulb. She tips her head against his shoulder and looks at him in the eyes. His hands slowly halt and he looks back at her with an intensity that, no matter how much she knows the extent to which he loves her - has always loved her, still catches her off guard. His lips are upturned in a gorgeous smile; she immediately reciprocates the action and snakes her arm around his neck. He takes the opportunity to bend his head down and capture her lips. She feels his hand slide her tangled, sodden hair from her face and she turns around to kiss him more fully. It is comfortable like this - without the knowledge that they’re likely gonna be separated again in the near future - without the threat of kidnappers, Chronicoms, or the ‘destroyer of worlds’ out to get them. When she kisses him now, it’s slow, calm, and deeply passionate; not out of desperation.  
  
He pulls away reluctantly and rests his forehead against hers. “Jemma,” he breathes, a shinning smile blossoming across his otherwise tired expression. “We need to retrieve the money,” he says; cautious, this time, to approach the subject.  
  
“The lottery,” she mumbles, her sigh intentionally audible. ‘Way to ruin the moment,’ she thinks. “How much, exactly, did you waste on that?”  
  
“Two pounds, I swear!” Fitz reassures her, lifting both hands in the air. The water rushes down his arms and drips at his elbow. “Daisy had this whole idea where she, Deke and-”  
  
Jemma interrupts him with a kiss. “Two pounds, right? Only two.” Seeking validation, she places a distance between them and fixes him with a stern look.  
  
Fitz nods. “Just two.” He encases her in a swift embrace before turning her around and grabbing the shampoo from the shower caddy. Slowly, at first, he begins to massage the soap into her hair, moving his fingers up her neck and around her ears. She leans into his touch, savouring the moment.  
  
A year ago, Jemma believed that she would never make it here. She’d given up hoping that she and Fitz would reach a point of mutual comfort, relaxation, and simplicity. It was implausible that they would. It is still unlikely that S.H.I.E.L.D. won’t phone them up with a new assignment or an offer to teach at the academy. Although they’d both known the risk - risks - that they were taking when they joined S.H.I.E.L.D. all those years ago, it was a daunting transition from Sci-Ops to Coulson’s - the alive Coulson’s - field team. At the very beginning, it was a satisfactory change. A relative increase in danger to the acceptability of the experience. It was not disastrous, or so they thought. Not two years in, Fitz had a brain condition and Jemma had transferred uncover to HYDRA. A year after that, a rock swallowed Jemma up and forced her to live with Hive. Not to mention the later years which involved the Framework and time travel.  
  
If Jemma had given up hope by that point, who could blame her? Not only that, but her romantic relationship with Fitz had sprung amidst the endless terrors; they became obvious prime targets for their enemies to use. It’s not that Jemma regrets her decision to further involve herself with Fitz, it just could’ve happened much earlier or much later.  
  
Turning around as Fitz finishes rinsing the suds from her hair, Jemma replicates his treatment. His curls, though mused and wet, are soft between her fingers. The short strands on the back of his neck respond to her touch like cat fur; slowly falling back into place. She hears his shaky breath as she begins to rub soap into his pasty scalp. “You, Mr. Fitzsimmons, need sunlight,” she declares, suddenly marvelling at his muscular development over recent years. It is hard to tell how long it was, exactly, since she’d last accused him of having a Vitamin D deficiency. He ignored her attempts to encourage him to change his ways, obviously, but his health has increased since. He was skinny then. Slim almost to the bone. His thin arms and flat torso rocked a cardigan and plaid shirt. In some capacity, she misses those days. Life was easier then, not riddled with complex, irrational mathematical concepts and evil robots with the sole intent to kill living beings. A time when science was trustworthy, consistent, and comprehensible.  
  
“I’m not as pasty as I used to be,” he argues, a hint of pride in his voice.  
  
Jemma sighs and gently pulls his head under the spray. “I beg to differ,” she retorts - a response she’d acquired from him, no doubt. Removing the foam from his head is an immensely fast occurrence in comparison to the lengthy process of washing her thick bundle of hair.  
  
They proceed to remove the minimal grime off of one another at a lackadaisical pace. On occasion, Jemma lets slip a moan as Fitz caresses her arm or tousles her hair. How many years of this had they missed out on?  
  
Jemma steps out of the shower first, basking in the comfort of the cooler air on her bare skin. The relief only lasts a minute, when the edge of the chill causes her shivers. “Thanks,” she mumbles as she practically snatches the towel from him. The does little to provide satisfaction in the Scottish climate and she finds herself quickly getting dressed. Like most days since her and Fitz’s life has reduced to the simplicity it is now, today is no special occasion, nor is her outfit due any particular attention. She slips on a black tank top, jeans, and a grey woollen cardigan, leaving her wet towel tied up in her hair.  
  
“Hey, are we going to the agency down the street or the one at the end of Jeanfield road?” Fitz asks as he covers his toned chest with a white t-shirt.  
  
Jemma gazes at his muscles that play against the fabric of his shirt. “Do you feel like a walk?”  
  
“Aye,” he answers with a broad smile. “Let’s go and get one million pounds.” He steps over to her, grabs her hand, and leads her to the front door. He retrieves both their windbreakers and slips hers over her shoulders. When his own is zipped up, she pulls his arms around her into a warm embrace. It’s truly a revelation; she has the ability to demonstrate her affection whenever she wants.  
  
The rushing chill from the outside breeze startles Jemma and Fitz bumps into her back from her sudden halt. “You okay, Jems?” he asks, placing his hands on her hips. She laughs lightly and continues out the door.  
  
The cool soon becomes second places as the views that sweep across the mountainside shine like a glorious painting in the not distant background. The clouds are illuminated by the Sun’s failing attempt at reaching the beautiful landscape. “You know something I don’t like about Britain?”  
  
“Hm?” Fitz asks, not hiding his jarring exit from his own reverie.  
  
Jemma looks to the sky. “It’s either raining, or it looks like it’s going to,” she states, reaching for and then clinging to Fitz’s arm. She resists his non-verbal insistence that they speed up and instead slows her pace. He grunts but falls kindly into step beside her. “The money can wait,” she mumbles. “Look around for a moment.”  
  
Fitz sighs and feigns appreciating the sights. “Aye, a patch of grass,” he says eventually, sarcastically gesturing at the small garden in question.  
  
“Oh, Fitz!” Jemma cries sweetly.  
  
***  
  
After several corners and numerous complaints about Fitz’s insisted upon unenthusiasm, the small post office comes into sight. “Hey, Fitz!” Jemma exclaims excitedly. He smiles at her and tugs her arm gently. She trails him inside, eager to meet the welcoming heat. The door rings as they enter as if it were an antique book store.  
  
An elderly lady at the enclosed counter greets them with a warm smile. “And what’s dragged you, two sweethearts, here today? It’s mighty baltic out there, isnae?”  
  
The Scottish expressions still phase Jemma slightly and she giggles as Fitz answers. “Aye, it is.” He throws Jemma a nimble glance. “We’re here for the lotto,” he says boastfully.  
  
“The lottery?! I know I shouldn’t tell ye this, but a canny lassie like yourself shouldnae be investing in the lotto. You’re gonna waste yer dosh,” the lady advises. “Now, can I see your ticket?” Fitz walks over to the counter and slips the folded ticket out of his jacket pocket.  
  
“Here you go,” he says, handing the polite lady the slip of paper.  
  
Jemma watches as the lady scans the ticket. There’s a small beep, and she thinks it’s all over but the lady scans the ticket again. And again. Every time a quiet ping echoes in the otherwise deathly silent room. Her finger twitches as a distrait red bird knocks on the window. Immediately, a stream of worry disrupts her increasingly anxious composure. A rush of unsatisfactory relief jostles her as the crossbill fumbles for its flight. “Blasted conspiracies!” Fitz’s exclamation only startles her further as time appears to stretch into limitless extension.  
  
The lady faces the couple with a slight frown. “I’m sorry…” She glances at the ticket. “Leo, but your ticket isn’t valid,” she says with profound solace. “You’ve got the wrong date.”  
  
Fitz’s face lowers and he nods in understanding. “Ach! Hell mend ye,” he chastises himself.  
  
“I’m sorry, Fitz,” Jemma mumbles, tugging him gently into an embrace.  
  
“Ah, it was just some daft game, wasnae?” He finally looks at her face and she sees the pooling tears in his glistening blue eyes.  
  
“Oh, Fitz!” 


End file.
